


The Deliverance of Marge Simpson

by lampsabout



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Substance Abuse, and the webcomic MargeSimpsonAnime, both are excellent and inspired me to write this, do you ever have a cc that you dont care about?, that you just wanna think about?, thats marge for me, this is heavily inspired by rapheal bob-waksberg "does marge have friends", yeah i know im in the middle of danganronpa but shshhhhhhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28473144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lampsabout/pseuds/lampsabout
Summary: When down her weedy trophies and herself fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide,And mermaid-like a while they bore her up, which time she chanted snatches of old laudsAs one incapable of her own distress, or like a creature native and induedUnto that element. But long it could not be till that her garments, heavy with their drink,Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay to muddy death.
Relationships: Marge Simpson/Maude Flanders
Kudos: 7





	The Deliverance of Marge Simpson

Marjorie Barbara Carol Bouvier died at the age of 23, at 5:34 PM, on May 19th, 1993.

Marjorie had long, blue hair, always frizzy, that stuck high up. She had a liking towards chunky jewelry. She liked cheap wine.

In many ways, Marge Simpson is the same woman as Marjorie Barbara Carol Bouvier. But in much more violent ways, Marge was not.

When one looks at Marjorie, they see brilliant blue eyes. Sparkling blue eyes. Blue eyes that remain full of hope, excitement, thrill for the future. However, when one looks at Marge, they see her eyes are dull. A pale, sad, weak blue, limp and struggling. These two eyes cannot belong to the same person.

Marge’s hair is blue. So was Marjorie’s. But Marjorie’s hair was full. It was rich and curly, and frayed in all directions but Marjorie didn’t care. She combed it, styled it, Marjorie enjoyed having hair. Meanwhile, Marge viewed it as a nuisance, nowadays. The constant upkeep, the struggle, and for what? To look pretty? Whatever reason, Marge still did her hair. But with none of the freedom that young, glamorous Marjorie had.

Marge nor Marjorie did not smoke. Marge and Marjorie did drink. But Marge and Marjorie both refused to drink anything over 5 dollars, so they figured that balanced it out.

But still, Marge and Marjorie were not the same person. Marge and Marjorie saw no resemblance in each other. They saw a sad, strange woman, and a delightfully naive little girl.

And one of them was dead. One of them would never come back. Marge was not sure if she could recognize poor, sweet, little Marjorie now. Would Marge care? Would Marge try to save her, if she was given a chance? Marge does not know. Because Marjorie Barbara Carol Bouvier was dead. And Marge Simpson was alive.

Marge Simpson’s sisters loved her dearly. This, Marge knew deep in her soul. As real as the stale cigarette smoke that pervaded Marge’s childhood memories, their love surrounded Marge, was inhaled by Marge.

They were her sisters. Of course they loved her. How could they not? When Marge would cry and wail and scream whenever she skinned her knee, or stubbed her toe, Patty and Selma were nearby. Not close. Not touching her, but they were nearby. They were watching. Present.

Marge was hugged by her sisters rarely. In moments of emotional clarity, or signs of weakness from the sisters, Marge would be embraced. She remembers it feeling odd. Like a vice pushing and crushing as hard as it could, but soft.

Patty and Selma never hit Marge. They never hurt her. The smoke in the air would always stink and swirl in Marge’s vision, the smell of nicotine and cigarettes burning so hard that it made her sight spin, but Marge was never hurt. Marge was fine. She was happy, as she coughed into the sink, trying to will her body to accept the toxic air.

Her sister’s loved her dearly. Their love stank in the air and forced it’s way into her throat, the raw burning passion scorching her vocal chords, earning her a scratchy, uneven tone, not too far off from her sisters, who had burned their voices raw.

Marjorie fell in love when she was 20. She was alone, at a bar, drinking quiet, uneven sips. She didn’t remember how she got there, or why she was there, but she figured she didn’t really need a reason why. She was about to order another drink, when a man slid into the seat next to her. His hair, black and shiny. His body, while not a model you’d see in a magazine, was certainly attractive.

He slurred his speech, Marjorie noted. He talked in easier sentences. He might be a little bit wasted. But who wasn’t? it was a bar.

She gave him her drink. Decided she’d be driving for this poor fellow tonight. And indeed she did. She drove this man, whom she learned was named Homer Simpson back to her apartment, making sure to go back for her car afterwards.

He slept on her couch for two days, and afterwards, Marjorie wasn’t ever sure he left. Marjorie gave him three years. Three, happy, lovely years, that ended with a ring and a white dress. Marjorie had never been more excited.

The wedding took place on May 19th, 1993. At 5:34 PM, Marjorie kissed Homer Simpson, making an unbreakable vow, that she would never find another love. For she was bound to Homer forever. At the time, this delighted her.

Then came her son. Bart was a beautiful child. A little rough, sure, but weren’t all children? She couldn’t blame him for being a child. Marge loved him. And he loved her, as all mothers should to their sons.

Her daughter came two years later. Lisa. A beautiful mind and a beautiful heart. Marge often thought to herself how she’d feel when her daughter became an important figure. When her dreams of president came true. Marge would feel proud, she hopes.

Then came her baby. Maggie, so full of hope and color and future. A promise of things to come. Still so young, but brilliant, in a way that all babies were. 

Marge considered herself a mother. She had children, obviously, but Marge’s definition of motherhood blurred in her mind. The image of a mother, a madonna flying high amongst the heavens, clutching to her infant savior. Marge was none of those things. Marge was not a god. She wasn’t sure if she was even raising her children how they should be. Was Marge a failure? Was she not a good mother?

Of course she wasn’t. She was a horrible, awful mother.

The first time he put his hands on his son, Marge told him off. The first time he wrapped his greasy, thick fingers around her son’s neck, Marge screamed at him and chastised him. She thought she had gotten through to him, then. Pierced his thick skull with her words and told him to never touch their child again.

But then it happened. Again, and again, it happened. And repetition, as is it’s nature, lead way to numbness. The sight of her son, screaming in pain, choking for air that can’t traverse his lungs, is a common image, burned into Marge’s brain.

How dare she? how dare Marge sit back and watch? How dare Marge quiet herself, tell her husband to knock it off, all while never truly, ever, stopping him? How could Marge live with herself? How could Marge just sit by, and let a 10 year old boy flinch and edge away from his friends? From his sister and mother?

At night, after her husband is fast asleep and the lights have long since dimmed, the distant honking of Lisa’s saxophone having quieted hours ago, Marge lies awake in her bed. She holds herself like she holds her daughter. She does not cry. She stares at herself, in the mirror opposite her bed, and she wonders how she can do so without breaking the mirror in disgust. What has Marge become? What kind of stagnant, lazy, blissfully ignorant monster has she let herself become?

Marge was not a mother, she decided. She was never meant to be a mother, if she lets things like this happen. Marge did not deserve her children. She did not deserve to see their smiling faces, and to hear their voices every day and night. She wishes she could repay them. She wishes she could give them a better home. But still, a selfish nagging in the back of her skull tells her to grab onto them and drag them down with her.

Marge Simpson had few friends. Helen Lovejoy, the wife of the pastor and a nasally woman, who gossipped and snitched day after day, was not a friend to Marge. Sarah Wiggum, in all her delightful pies and charming grins, was not a friend to Marge. Agnes Skinner, as Agnes Skinner usually did, delivered little else but sneers and disgusted insults. Predictably, she was not a friend to Marge.

Marge Simpson had a friend. Marge Simpson had a next door neighbor named Maude Flanders. Maude Flanders died in the winter of 1998. Marge does not recall the circumstances of Maude’s death, as ludicrous as she knows they must be. Marge does not recall much of the funeral, nor does she recall her husband’s involvement (though she knew he was involved).

Maude Flanders shone bright and elegant in Marge’s world of dull grays and blues. Her smile, a sun that brightened Marge’s empty void.

Marge, on those nights where she lay awake, listening to the sounds of her husband’s snores and wiping tears from her eyes, she imagined Maude was there with her. That Maude’s hands lay intertwined with hers. That Maude’s legs tangled with Marge’s under the covers while they lay, staring at eachother. Marge would run her hand along Maude’s cheek, tucking a strand of her brown hair behind her ear. Maude would shuffle closer to her, as impossibly close as they already were. She would hold her, make her safe in her arms, and Marge would sigh, happy.

Marge pictured it, the softness of that calm, how, with time, the sunlight wold shine through the window and illuminate their faces, just light enough to wake Marge. She would smile at Maude, happy to learn she wasn’t dreaming the previous night. She would kiss her, and return to her position in bed, until Maude woke up along with her, and they began their day in earnest.

Of course, marge would never have that. Marge was a fool to dream, to want. Marge thought and fantazied and imagined as much as she wanted, but all those dreams would bring to her heart was further ache and worry. Marge knew this, knew her escapist fantasies were nothing but just that. But still, she dared to want. She dared to hope, to dream, that there could be something more.

Once upon a summer barbecue, Maude grabbed her hand under the picnic table. Her hand shook in Marge’s. She trembled in her grip, a distant, thousand yard stare in Maude’s eyes. What prompted this connection? What drove Maude to take the hand of her friend? Were they even friends? Were they just acquaintances? An acquaintance who Marge dreamt of, whom Marge projected her hopes and desires onto?

Maude smiled at her. A quiet, small smile. A smile that did not make it to her eyes. A smile that warned. A smile that pleaded. But Marge said nothing back. She just smiled, and squeezed Maude’s hand. Marge laughed to herself of the absurdity of it all. But yet, here they were. Silently, secretly, and calmly sharing this moment. This one, beautiful, picturesque moment they were sharing together, while their children shouted and their husbands bickered.

Few mourn for Maude Flanders. Few remember her name with fondness. Few cry at memory. Few still look at pictures of her and hope she is happy, wherever she may be.

Marge mourned for Maude Flanders. Late at night, Marge would stare at her hands in the kitchen, the pink of her nightgown remind her of the lipstick Maude would wear. Her palms shook as she thought of her. What had she done wrong? Could Marge have saved her? If Marge tried just a bit harder, could she have done something? Could she had helped her? It was a freak accident that Maude left this world, but Marge still hoped, still dared to dream that maybe, maybe it was her fault. At least then Marge would have someone to blame.

The thought that Maude Flanders was dead, and that there was nothing Marge could do about it, was worse than the thought that Maude Flanders was dead, and Marge was just too useless to save her.

Marge stares at portraits of her family. She stares at them and she shakes her head. She sees her husband, grinning stupidly, her children, lined up in a row, with little Maggie in her sister’s hands. She sees her sisters standing side by side, cigarettes in hand. But she does not see Marge. She sees a space where a mother should be. She sees a void, an absence of care, of love, of support. She sees a gap she could fill, a hole that is shaped like her, but Marge cannot fill that hole. Whatever woman is supposed to parent these children, and whatever woman is supposed to have married Homer Simpson, she was not there. Instead, there was Marge Simpson.

Marge Simpson danced in her dreams. She danced through cherry pink clouds and she laughed and she loved. She danced with her children, with Maggie in her arms, and Bart and Lisa at her side. She danced in circles, and she chanted and sang and loved. She danced as a free woman, as a woman unburdened by everything the world saddled her with. She danced, and she was happy.

Would Marge Simpson be happy? Would Marge ever, really and truly, feel joy? Was Marge a broken woman? Had she finally lost her ability to sympathize? Was she ruined? Poisoned? Was Marge dripping her poison into the food and drink she prepared for her children. Was Marge the problem? Did Marge poison Homer when she married him? Did Marge’s incessant nagging push him to drink and choke? Marge Simpson did not know. Marge Simpson could not hope to know. And on some level, Marge Simpson did not want to.

Marge wants so badly to fight. She wants to hit, and scream and spit and hiss. She wants to scratch and beg and plead and  _ hurt.  _ She wants to leave. In her mind, she is floating amongst the world. She is phantasmal and resplendent, her body and mind higher than the others. She sees Marge, and the world sees Marge. In her mind, Marge demands she be respected, and she leaves. She takes her children, and she leaves.

But Marge would never leave.

What kind of sick pity did she hold for her husband? What kind of pathetic sense of duty did she hold in the back of her mind to keep her in this man’s house? Was it a death wish? Masochism? She hears the wheezes of her son, and the quivering fear of her daughter. She feels it too. Her heart aches, and burns, and hurts, but still, Marge cannot leave.

At late nights, Marge holds herself. She sobs and she wraps her arms around her and she coos, trying desperately to calm herself like she calms her infant daughter. On late nights, Marge dreams of Maude Flanders and Pink clouds and happy homes and angry wives. She dreams of secret smiles and new houses and a moment away from beer and cigarettes. She dreams of this life, this unattainable life, and she cries.

She holds Maude Flanders in her dreams and Maude pushes her away. She stands at her and she frowns. She shakes her head, and she points. Marge follows her finger, and she cries. She knows. Maude Flanders would be sad to see her go. But Maude Flanders would hate her if she didn’t do it.

Marjorie Barbara Carol Bouvier smiled. She was dead, but yet she lived. She breathed, and she wiped a tear from her eye as she woke from her sleep. A hand clasped over her chest, a promise. A declaration. A scream, if only to spite the world.

Marge Bouvier filed for a divorce on June 17th, 2001. Homer Simpson, as he did with everything in his life, was blissfully, stupidly, unaware of how to navigate a divorce hearing, and lost custody of his children.

Marjorie Barbara Carol Bouvier lives with her three children, far from the town of Springfield. Where she is is not important. Who she knows, and who she smiles with, the newspaper she reads, the drink she drinks and the life she lives is not important. None of that is important.

What is important is that Marjorie Barbara Carol Bouvier was  _ alive.  _ For the first time in 23 long, long years, Marjorie felt alive.

She could dance in her green sundress, she could frolic through cherry pink clouds and hold her children close, she could smile and drink and laugh and love and kiss and...and she could be happy.

Living in a small house, in a new small town, with her three children, Marjorie was safe. She was happy. The next day, Marjorie would wake up. And she would still be happy. She will have ups and downs. Days where she would question her decision. Days when things wouldn’t be sohappy. But Marjorie would survive. Marjorie would survive, and never again would she allow Marjorie Barbara Carol Bouvier to throw her life away.

And Marjorie smiled.


End file.
